


Forbidden Skin

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Back Kink, Corsetry, Feminization, Groping, M/M, Sam in a Corset, Wincest - Freeform, corset kink?, drunkchesters, dub-con???, oh yeah it's all in there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3673683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean really has a thing for corsets. He just didn't know he had a thing for his <i>brother</i> in one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten about my other story! Just filling a delicious prompt from my sister in which Dean puts Sammy in a corset >:]  
> Set in s7.

The piece-of-crap Dodge that Dean picked up just a day ago rumbles down an unknown highway, trail of smoke puffing out behind it. Hand on the wheel, Dean presses down on the gas while Sam sifts through station after station, not landing on any particular one. As it stands, they're too tired to do any more research on Leviathans and too wired after ghost-hunting in Lily Dale, so when they pass a town; they're not even sure which town it is, they decide to pop in for a drink or two.

They park a couple of blocks down from the bar. It's not a particularly happening street, but it seems like the most this small town's got to offer. Vibrant lights spilling from store windows, the distant sound of commotion that can only signify the presence of the town bar nearby where most of the locals would be at this hour.

They pass a store that catches Dean's eye, its notably seductive front window beckoning to his sexually deprived soul. The window boldly displays mannequins in lacy lascivious garments in front of a curtain of flowing purple and red, silky smooth and reflecting the pale white light. The mannequins glow, like beacons of sin and sex, and Dean can't peel his eyes away. He jolts in place and slows his steps. His eyes fall on a mannequin who languorously lounges on a stool with her back facing the passersby. She's got a skimpy outfit on, some stockings and a garter belt and a ruffled panty, but Dean's brain is hot-wired to focus on her back. It's done up tightly in an intricately-laced corset, the sleek black of the leather and lace making Dean's heart stutter with a flicker of a memory.

Unlacing the thing hole by hole, red lace silky smooth underneath his fingers, pulling the ribbon away and letting it slip between his fingertips, the brush of warm skin on the backs of his knuckles... Heart beating fast, too fast, anxious as the corset falls away inch by inch, unravelling and revealing puffy red imprints on bare naked skin.      

"Dean?" Sam's questioning voice interrupts Dean's reminiscing, he's snapped back to the storefront and the smell of the street and smoke.

He cracks an innocent grin and nods in the direction of the mannequin. "Hey, check it out."

Sam gives him a pitied smile-frown, something he's abnormally good at, but barely glances at the window.

They approach a cluster of husky street-smokers hanging out in front of a set of doors and walk past them into the bar.

The charming bustle of the small-town bar greets them as they walk in. It's a quaint little place, the kind of place that doesn't seem to have enough chairs for how many people there are; long bar and stools up front and a scattering of tables in the middle, complete with a game of pool in progress at the back.

They manage to find a seat at the bar, by the back end of the place near the doors to the washrooms. Dean orders a gin on the rocks and a whiskey for Sam. By now he knows his baby brother's drink, doesn't even have to wait for him to sit down to recount it. The bartender serves it up in record time; two glasses clink down in front of them, soothing warm-fuzzy feeling awaiting their brains.

"Who's driving?" Dean hears Sam contest just as he's about to take in a sip of his first drink in 72 hours.

Dean side-glances but swallows it down anyway. He recalls spotting lodging just a couple blocks over. "Saw a motel down the street. We could walk. No biggie." He sets his drink down and notices Sam giving him his trademark I-don't-know-about-this-but-I'm-about-to-give-in look, and nudges Sam's elbow. "Come on, have a little fun, let your hair down."

Sam relaxes, face muscles slackening as he pushes a strand of tidy brown hair behind his ear. Dean smirks and takes another sip, letting his tension drift away, down with every swallow of liquor, somewhere where he won't have to deal with it for a while.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

On the third drink Dean's head begins spinning. He's lost track of the conversation, got bored of it or something. He starts surveying the other people in the bar, Sam's going on about quinoa or whatever the hell that healthy crap is called and how he can never pronounce it properly, laughing at himself like he often does when he's tipsy.

Dean's horny tonight. He's not even going to try to deny it. The corset in the window next door got his brain buzzing before he even had anything to drink and now that he's halfway to drunk he can't seem to stop thinking about it. He must be a sucker for all things black and sleek: the Impala; his baby that he misses unconditionally, and now the damn corset, all curvy and silky and he just wants to run his fingers up and down it and... that's it, he's just going to buy the damn thing.

He just has to find a way to bring it up to Sam without sounding like a perverted lunatic.

He starts going on about his kinky ex-girlfriend (if she could even be called that - he was only with her for a brief weekend in Houston) and how she was an "exotic dancer." At this point Sam's curious. She had great legs and soft, flowing brown hair and yes, the first night Dean made love to her she was wearing this delicious, red and black corset that made Dean practically drool. He never knew he had a thing for them until that moment. What was even better was that she made him untie it, and god when he worked those strings out of the loops, unveiling the imprinted skin beneath, listening to her anxious breath pick up, he—

"Okay, Dean, I get it." Sam shifts on the stool, adjusting his jeans by tugging them at the knees. He takes another sip of his drink. It's only his second.

Dean orders another round, despite Sam's reluctance. He needs only look at Sam to be able to tell he's horny too. Sweaty palms, flushed face, the way he keeps adjusting his pants (Dean doesn't want to take the credit for that, but he _does_ have a pretty seductive voice when he's drunk).

He knows of some brothers that are so close they watch porn together, beat off, guilt-free stuff like that and wonders why the hell he and Sam don't. Dean recalls certain memories, when they were just kids; they used to do some experimenting under covers late at night when Dad was sound asleep, wasted and drained from another hunt. Just the innocent I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours stuff that kids often do until typically they grow out of it by the time they hit puberty. He's also pretty sure he's the one that introduced Sam to porn, though he knows that's not exactly something to be proud of.

Anyway, he brings up the fact that he wants to go check out the corset again on their way to the motel, and Sam gapes at him, cheeks taking on a flustered pink tint.

"You're ridiculous."

"What? I'm just saying... you have to see it, Sammy. I think—" Dean snorts, laughing at the ridiculousness of what he's about to say. "I think I wanna get it."

Sam does that crazy-eye thing, only now the crazy is intensified by the amount of alcohol he's consumed. "You serious?"

Dean shrugs. "Why not? Could be fun." He realizes how far off the wagon he is by now, but it's too late to stop so he might as well try and make Sam see his point. If there even _is_ any point.

Sam hunches his shoulders forward and leans on the bar, shaking his head. "I don't get it — what, you wanna just... _look_ at it?"

There's a thought that comes completely out of nowhere and catches Dean off-guard, but even knowing how obscured his drunken frame of mind was, he couldn't dismiss the thought — the image, actually — of the corset tied securely around _Sam's back._ Laced tightly up the curve of his spine, blades of his bare shoulders arching, getting used to the squeeze... _Fuck, that would be fucking hot..._ He tells himself it's the gin— that he wouldn't even be _thinking_ this if it weren't for the warm, soothing embrace of a brain-altering liquid, which, by the way, is practically laughing at him now. He shifts on the stool uncomfortably. "Yeah man, I guess. I mean, don't you think it would be fun?"

And Sam _laughs_. It seems like a _Dean, you're pathetic_ kind of laugh but it's a laugh nevertheless. Dean lets out a breath and tries to smile along with him. Sam's still shaking his head, setting his drink down. He licks his wet lips and hangs his head low, uncertain of his words even as he speaks them. "I don't know, I guess..."

Dean relaxes and slaps Sam on the back, grinning from ear to ear. "Atta boy!"

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

"I still can't believe you're doing this," Sam stands outside the boutique with his hands shoved in his pockets. He watches Dean, practically bouncing like a kid at Christmas, open the door to the little shop with a huge, happy-drunk smile on his face. Dean waits for him to follow but Sam shakes his head.

"No way, you're on your own," he raises his palms up. "You're the one that wants this thing."

Dean rolls his eyes, swinging the door open and disappearing inside.

This had to go down in the history book of stupid ideas thought up by Winchesters. But it was kind of funny and Dean was a happy drunk so might as well indulge him while he's smiling. Sam would rather see him like this than with his fist at someone's throat.

Plus, they were just fooling around anyway. It was kind of a joke. At least, that's how Sam sees it. Just some simple, mindless stupidity that he's reluctantly playing along with because hell, why not indulge each other? Why not have a night where they do something completely idiotic? They've been through too much crap to care anymore about finding things weird. Especially when it comes to the psychology of a Winchester.

Still, as Dean emerges from the store holding a bag stuffed with pink tissue, positively beaming like a five-year-old kid on his birthday, Sam secretly wishes he had at least one more glass of whiskey in his system.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

They reach the motel, check in for one night— two queens and a mini-fridge, and set their stuff down inside the room.

By now, the drink Dean downed (had it been his fifth or his sixth?) back at the bar has completely muddled his topsy-turvy mind, he can no longer be held accountable for his actions.

Sam sits on one of the beds, huge glossy-brown eyes staring up at Dean unsure. His knee is bouncing up and down in anticipation.

"This is stupid," Sam starts to say, running a hand through his hair. It stays where he put it and takes its time falling back in front of his eyes.

Dean ignores his argument. Feeling dangerously anxious like a teenager who just found his dad's porn collection, he carefully reaches in the bag and holds on to the object inside, letting the bag fall away.

Sam just stares at it.

It's all black, with two different textures in the leather; smooth all over except two strips up the sides of the ribs, where the leather changes to a deep, imbedded flowery-pattern that you have to squint to notice, and the lacing not only goes up the back but there's also a ribbon keeping the front and tiny twin slits in the sides together. It's the perfect shape, straight across the top so you don't need breasts to look good in it.

"So, what do you think?" Dean asks, and he only realizes now that he's slurring his words together. Not terribly, just a little.

Sam swallows, eyes still focused on the corset Dean's holding outstretched in front of him. "I think... It's a woman's undergarment. A provocative undergarment. And I think I feel twelve again."

Dean snorts and takes a seat on the bed next to Sam. He lays the corset down on the bed, fingers playing and adjusting the ribbons. "Look at the back, though." He turns it over flat, admiring the intricate lacing. A heat gathers at his groin, he shifts on the bed to ignore it and eyes Sam.

Sam looks _afraid_ to touch it, like it might spontaneously come to life and swallow him whole. "How much was it?"

"Doesn't matter."

Sam grunts low in his throat. Dean's never sure if it's a laugh or a nervous twitch in which Sam feels the need to clear his throat in awkward situations.

"Doesn't it turn you on?" Dean hears himself saying. He realizes with only slightly obscured clarity that he's too drunk now to monitor his words before they decide they want to leave his mouth.

Sam sits there in palpable discomfort, and now that he has his coat off it's easier to notice the sweat that's already starting to take form along his sternum. His cheeks glow red even as he tries to smile and play it off. "I don't know... Kinda?"

"Can you imagine what it would be like to wear one of these?" Dean's stomach does a flip-flop as he attempts to play cool. Sam had to know what he was thinking by now. He was making it _so_ obvious, wasn't he?

Sam just shakes his head and puts his hair behind his ear the way he does when he's thinking of something. His eyes never leave the corset. "Probably painful."

There was something hot coming up Dean's throat, threatening to spill out. It was either bile or— "You should try it on."

Sam immediately widens his eyes to the size of enormous. "What? No way!"

"What? You're the girl." _You're the girl??_ _What the fuck was that?_

"Dean, I'm _not_ trying that on," Sam eyes it skeptically, and now he just seems like he thinks Dean's being a perverted creep, just what Dean was afraid of.

 _Okay, Dean, just play it cool. It's not that big a deal. It's just a stupid corset!_ "What, you don't think it would be fun?"

Sam looks around the room for words. "Why... why do you want me to try it on so badly?"

Dean's palms start sweating. Sam always has to goddamn _question_ everything! "I don't _want_ you to, I just think it would give us something to do."

Sam seems to relax a little at that, thank god. His shoulders sink a bit and he actually risks a glance back at the corset sprawled out in front of Dean's lap.

"Don't tell me you're not dying to know what it feels like..." Dean prods anxiously, noticing Sam warming up to the whole idea.

Sam flushes again, broad smile taking to his face. Dean thinks he's about to say "no way!" and then maybe shove Dean and disappear into the bathroom to take a shower, and perhaps that is what he would have done, had he been completely sober. But instead he locks eyes with Dean for a handful of seconds and then suddenly he's taking his shirt off.

"You owe me for this. _Big time._ " He shrugs out of his shirt, exposing lean muscle and smooth, golden skin and Dean practically leaps up with excitement. "And you better know how to get me out of it."

"Yeah, yeah..." Dean watches Sam's back muscles as he picks up the corset and examines the back lacing. At first he picks at it but then the ribbons get all tangled and he starts to struggle. He was frustrated to begin with so when he can no longer pull them through the holes he grunts in aggravation.

Dean sighs. "Give it to me." Dean gets it untangled in no time; you have to be gentle with it, it's like the Impala — tender love and care and all that jazz. He loosens it up enough to fit over Sam's shoulders.

"Okay, arms up."

Sam obeys, toned biceps stretching up and they touch hands briefly at the top, as Dean fits the corset over them and slides it down his arms. Slowly, Dean pulls the thing over Sam's head and fits it over his waist. It sits there, waiting to be tightened, and even now it looks absolutely incredible. The harsh black contrasting with the fresh peach of Sam's skin, the way it sits just right under his shoulder blades... Dean can barely grab hold of the strings his hands are shaking so bad.

Sam leans forward a little, bracing himself for the tug, lean fingers curling around his knees to take hold.

Dean's stomach flutters at the sight. There's a thick lump in his throat as he straightens his shoulders and tightens his grip on the strings.

He begins tugging, gently at first, but the more he pulls the more he realizes it needs to be _tighter_ so it isn't long before he's yanking so hard Sam's jerking in place.

" _Dean..._ Just... Don't do it too tight, k?" Sam's voice practically gets lost, Dean's frenzied brain is only able to focus on one thing: how Sam's lean body is looking tied up in the confines of the corset.

He pulls tighter, slowly working his way up from the bottom and down from the top so the strings in the middle can be pulled even more.

Sam's gasps, emphasized on every tug, echo in Dean's ears, telling him to slow down or to use more caution but they're somehow fuel, he just wants to hear _more._ They're so sweet and helpless, something about Sam giving into Dean like this is making all his blood rush south.

Sam _squeaks_ on the next one, just a little high-pitched hurt noise and Dean feels his pulse quicken. And he realizes it now, there's something about the pain of it, that Sam's _allowing_ Dean this strange, strange pleasure, it gets him going and he can't stop now.

" _Dean,_ wait, Dean... It's— It's too tight," Dean can hear Sam's labored breathing, his small gasps for air, but somehow those are all lost to him too. Suddenly his jeans are too tight and his palms are too slippery, he's laser-focused on the black, slick symbol of sex wrapped around his baby brother.

"Dean, stop," Dean only vaguely registers the shake in Sam's straining voice. "It's too tight, I... I can't breathe."

"Just a sec," words stumble out of Dean's mouth as he continues yanking the cords through the tiny holes until they have no more give. He finishes up and ties the two long strings together in a neat bow. It's a far cry from the bows he used to tie in Sammy's shoes way back when he was just a toddler bouncing around, following Dean wherever he went. Then again, this is pretty much a far cry from anything they've ever done.

And just like that, it's tied.

Dean's hands are practically shaking as he pulls himself away and admires Sam's body. His waist, _god, where did he get off having such a tiny waist?_ synched tight in leather was a vision Dean could only have imagined in his darkest, most sinful dreams. His back, smooth and creamy, his neck, long and lean, his...

"Dean?"

"Fuck..." Is the only word Dean can form clearly right now. He extends a hand, risking any kind of boundary they may have established to stroke his shoulder blade delicately with the back of his knuckle. He drags it down the soft skin, skin he's never allowed to touch like this, _forbidden skin,_ until it reaches the leather and he carries it down that, too. Closer, he brushes his fingertips along the loopholes and the bow and the texture of the flowers and he begins overheating.

"Hows it look?" Sam asks softly, probably trying to save what breath he has left in him, poor thing.

Dean shakes his head in awe, at a loss for words. No words could possibly have any relevance right now. "Sexy..." is what Dean comes up with, which he thinks probably isn't the best adjective to use on your _brother_ , but, once again, the gin was the one talking, not him. He sits on the bed behind Sam, the dip in the mattress making Sam fall a little closer to him.

With unsteady hands, he traces the contours of Sam's waist, down to his hips. "How's it feel?"

Sam seems like a whole new person, all reserved and quiet, he even blushes when he smiles and practically whispers when he speaks. "Like I can't breathe." But he also looks excited, fascinated by the foreign feeling. The glimmer in his eye tells Dean he's enjoying this every bit as much as Dean is.

The gin pretty much takes over from there. Dean leans in and touches his lips to Sam's shoulder, feeling the warmth of Sam's blood-flushed flesh engulf his heavy brain, flood every single one of his senses. He strokes the leather of the corset with his thumb and pulls Sam a little closer in to him. Sam curves his neck to one side, and it's as much of an invitation as Dean needs to press wet, lingering kisses up the side of it. Sam's hair brushes Dean's cheek and falls over his closed eyelids and lashes, warm and sweet-smelling and welcoming. 

" _Dean_..." Sam whispers in some form of protest. His breathing picks up, chest pounding so hard Dean can practically _hear_ it. "Take it off... I can't... can't breathe..."

Dean smothers Sam's neck, damp now with sticky sweat that little strands of Sam's hair are sticking to, his pulse is throbbing faster than ever, Dean can feel the pump of his blood under his tongue, _thump, thump, thump_...

"Just a little bit longer..." Dean curls his arm around Sam's thin waist, pulling him flush against his chest. He gropes and caresses the cool, hard leather, fingers traveling, always traveling. They find the soft pants of his leg and stroke his hip.

_Dean..._

_It's no big deal... Just relax..._

Between his legs now and his palm barely has time to gently linger over something hard and straining before Sam's hand stops him. He grips Dean's palm so tight it almost hurts.

"Dean. Take it off. Now." He's barely able to say it, every word labored and Dean is violently snapped back to the reality of what's actually going on.

Dean pulls back slowly, trembling hands finding their way to the bow at Sam's back and attempting to work it undone. It takes several tries, but he finally gets it and begins pulling the strings to loosen them. His heart is butterflying around in his ribcage, his palms sweaty and fingers too fucking thick, it seems harder to get the thing off than it was to put it on. Sam's back is stiff, fingers digging in to his knees, trying to focus on only his breathing.

_Did that actually happen? Was Dean actually feeling up his brother? What the fuck?_

"I'm sorry," Dean offers as he gets the thing loose enough that it unfolds and falls to his hips. Sam's skin underneath is white where the blood was unable to travel, with a puffy red imprint of the corset in the middle, just a ghost of what was once there. He can still see the loopholes and the ribbon stretched taut across skin; something tells him that image will be seared into his memory forever.

He stands, practically falling over weak knees and his own lightheadedness, and shuts himself up in the tiny motel bathroom. Even if he wasn't seeing spots, he would be unable to meet his reflection in the mirror.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

When he comes back out, his attempt to clear his mind by running cold water over his face and hands having completely failed, Sam's turned off all the lights. He's lying flat on his stomach, bare back (he's still shirtless, goddamn it) exposed to the subtle glow of the blue moonlight filtering in through the curtains.

Dean takes a seat on the opposite bed, letting his breathing slow and calm him down. If he squints, he can still see the puffy imprint outlining Sam's spine and he regrets ever having any stupid ideas regarding women's provocative undergarments.

Sam didn't deserve that.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He wants to reach out, to soothe his skin and to tell him he's sorry, but instead he shuts his eyes, crawls into bed and lets his spinning head relax until morning.

By morning, everything would be better. By morning, everything would be forgotten.


End file.
